


Gloomy Sunday

by VitriolandAlcohol



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitriolandAlcohol/pseuds/VitriolandAlcohol
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part song-fic (Gloomy Sunday), part poem-fic (The Wasteland [215-255]). Mildly depressing Sjips. Somewhat NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gloomy Sunday

Stale tobacco smoke curled upwards and hung like a black cloud across the apartment. Even with the window open, the stifling air remained stagnant, feeling more like late brown summer than the youthful spring the calendar suggested. Sips, lounging lazily on his divan, took another drag and exhaled; watching the twisting smoke force patterns in the air before losing itself in the existing blanket. He reached out blindly to knock ash from his cigarette, fingers upsetting a growing pile of bills and notices before finding the tray.

Snuffing the butt for now, he pulled himself upright and strolled absently to the window. Today, he was clad only in off white trousers (stained, and a size too big) and crumpled shirtsleeves that had fallen loose to display once powerful muscles beginning to go to seed with age and apathy. He paused before the dusty, cracked mirror and examined himself in the gray light. This morning’s stubble still darkened his jaw, and his hair was in a state from lounging much of the day. Sips dragged the mirror and his grooming kit to the smog-weakened sunlight coming through the window. Ridge had hinted he would call this evening, bring his weekly pay and maybe offering a little bonus if Sips provided suitable company.

The color-leeched wood of the windowsill darkened under the dripping shaving soap, disappearing into the thirsty wood quickly. If this drought kept up, prices in the market would all raise again, meaning he would have to put in more hours at work, or more after with his boss. Neither prospect particularly appealed to him.  
The window beside his eased open, bringing him out of his mindless routine as the crackling of a gramophone signaled his neighbor’s arrival home. Sjin’s golden voice complemented Billie’s as his apartment burst into activity. Sips wiped his face clean of foam, then began cleaning his straight razor; lingering at his window to listen. The muffled whistle of a kettle was cut off suddenly as a mess of brown hair stuck itself outside.  
“Not where the black coach of sorrow has ta- Oh! Hello, Sips!” Sjin propped himself on his sill, stirring his tea. His face colored red, and he couldn’t seem to meet his neighbor’s eyes.

“Don’t stop singing on my account, Sjinny.” Sips tilted his head back, using mirror and his hand to make sure he’d not missed any spot shaving. He caught a glimpse of Sjin in the mirror, staring hard at the line of his throat and following the path of dark hair that started at his chest and disappeared into the trousers tied loosely at his waist. For the hundredth time, Sips wanted to say something. Wanted to invite him over for coffee, or a smoke, or dinner, or just cut straight to the chase and offer him a nice fuck… but he couldn’t. Not Sjin. Not while he was still under Ridge’s thumb. Sjin was the one goal he had left in his life. Some day, Sips would have enough saved that he wouldn’t be Ridge’s personal slave; that he could offer himself debt-free to his tea-scented angel.

An authoritative knock on his door signaled his expected guest’s arrival. Sips put his mirror down, offered a brave smile to Sjin, memorizing his features again to help him get through his boss’ visit, then pulled the window closed.

“Gloomy Sunday,” his neighbor began singing again softly before the latch clicked.


End file.
